


Unpredictable and Unexpected

by the_sky_is_forever



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ghost Grantaire, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4237479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sky_is_forever/pseuds/the_sky_is_forever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Having Grantaire back is both a blessing and a curse. Enjolras had barely dared to dream of being able to talk to Grantaire again, but now he can, and it’s just not the same. He can read Grantaire’s words and know that it’s him saying those things, but he can’t hear Grantaire, he can’t see Grantaire, and he can’t touch Grantaire. It’s like being offered a second chance but not being allowed to actually have it."</p><p>-<br/>When Grantaire dies, no one really knows how to go on with their lives, least of all Enjolras. When Grantaire comes back as a ghost, things are neither better nor worse. Just- different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpredictable and Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a happy fic. If you're looking for that, then this isn't it. There are happy moments, and personally I feel that the end is calm if not happy. Overall, however, this is a fic about loss and grief and moving on after a loved one dies.
> 
> (If you're someone who is also reading my fic I'm Not Fluent In You, I just want you to know that I haven't abandoned it. I'm coming back. I know it's been nearly three weeks, but this next chapter has been hard to write and I'm very sorry about that.)
> 
> When Grantaire dies he is 23 and Enjolras is 27. 
> 
> (Oh, and if you're looking for ghost sex then this isn't for you, either. Alternatively, if you're hesitant about reading this in case there is ghost sex then I have good news: there isn't any.)

* * *

 

If I go before I say to everyone in my ballet

Let me take this chance to thank you for the dance

If I run out of songs to sing to take your mind off everything

Just smile, sit a while with the

Sun on your face and remember the place we met

Take a breath and soon I bet you'll see

Without you I would never be me

**Sing Together - Train**

 

“No,” Enjolras said, and Joly and Bossuet looked at him with sad eyes.

“Enjolras,” Joly started to say, his voice soft.

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras said, again, this time more forcefully. “He’s not dead. He _can’t_ be dead.”

Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look. Cosette let out a sob and Marius pulled her closer, his face white. Jehan and Courfeyrac and Combeferre were crying silent tears. Bahorel looked shell-shocked. Feuilly looked stunned. Éponine and Musichetta looked horrified.

“Enjolras,” Bossuet said, carefully, “I’m his emergency contact and they asked me to identify the body. It’s him. I know it’s him. He’s dead.”

“He can’t be,” Enjolras said again, and the tremor in his voice was obvious to everyone. “I- He can’t be.”

He sounded like a man trying to deny that the wind exists, or that the world turns. His friends – those that weren’t crying too much to – were looking at him with pity, and Enjolras couldn’t breathe.

“He can’t be dead, he wouldn’t- he couldn’t-”

His eyes were rapidly filling with tears and he attempted to blink them back, wanting desperately to be able to call Joly and Bossuet liars. But they aren’t.

They aren’t.

Enjolras felt someone put their arms around him – _Combeferre, it’s Combeferre_ , his mind distantly supplied – and he knew he was falling apart. Tears spilled over and he allowed Combeferre to help him into a chair, when his legs could no longer hold him up.

Courfeyrac joined them, pulling Enjolras into a hug, and all Enjolras could say, weakly, was, “But I love him.”

Now, Enjolras stands beside the gravestone and it’s impossible to deny the reality of the situation.

It was a car crash that did it, apparently. Something unpredictable and unexpected, leaving no one with a chance to say goodbye. If Enjolras knew who was driving the other car, they wouldn’t live another day. Logically, he knows that it probably wasn’t their fault. He doesn’t know the details; they might have swerved to avoid a child.

But Enjolras isn’t thinking logically. All he knows is that someone took his- the man he loves away from him.

The gravestone is made of black slate, according to Jehan that’s what he wanted, and the words carved into it fill Enjolras with a sickly feeling:

**SÉBASTIEN GRANTAIRE**

**A BELOVED FRIEND**

**17TH SEPTEMBER 1992 – 25TH JUNE 2015**

A beautiful summer day tore Grantaire away from the world.

Enjolras will never forgive it.

He’s alone as he stands here, the funeral is over and the others have gone home to grieve in peace, but Enjolras can’t seem to move. Combeferre and Courfeyrac offered to stay with him, but he turned them away.

“I-” he starts to say, voice breaking the silence. It’s hot in his suit and he reaches up to loosen the knot on his tie and take off his blazer. He doesn’t stop to think about it as he lays the jacket down onto the dry grass beside Grantaire’s headstone and sits down, one hand resting against the cool slate. He takes a deep breath.

“I never told you,” he begins again. “I never told you that I love you, and I will never get to. I had all these excuses, reasons not to, why it wasn’t the right time, and now… now they all seem… pointless.” He sighs. He looks at Grantaire’s grave. The freshly moved earth will one day be covered with grass. Maybe Jehan will plant flowers. Time will still pass. The sun will still shine. Rain will still fall.

And Grantaire won’t be there for any of it.

“I love you, R, and- and you’re _dead_. It’s so hard to understand. People die, and I know that, but not you. You’re not supposed to die.” He pulls his hand away from the gravestone. “I- I know it’s cliché, and if you were here you’d never let me live this down, but please come back. I had to say it. I know you won’t- can’t. But, please, come back.

“You’re not leaving me on my own, but you’re leaving without me and- and I don’t know if I can bear it.”

He can’t find the words to say anything else, and eventually, when the sun sinks lower in the sky, he gets back to his feet, pulling his blazer back on.

“I love you,” he says, simply, and then he walks away.

\---

Life goes on. Summer slides on into autumn. Sometimes someone will start crying. Sometimes they call Grantaire’s name, forgetting just for a moment. Sometimes Enjolras will start writing a text only to remember there’s no one on the other end. Autumn becomes winter and Grantaire’s still gone.

There’s something missing within all of them. Meetings aren’t the same. There are lulls in speeches where they all expect Grantaire to yell out something from the back of the room, that mocking grin on his face. Sometimes someone doesn’t make it to a meeting, and when asked, they say, “I just couldn’t face it today.” They all have those days.

Sometimes Enjolras curls up in his bed, on days where it’s particularly bad, and cries for hours. Some days he visits Grantaire’s grave.

He only goes back to Grantaire’s apartment twice. The first was a week or so after the funeral to help clear it out. Grantaire never wrote an official will, so they each took what they wanted and gave the rest to charity. They don’t tell each other what they took.

Enjolras took two things. A photograph of him and Grantaire that he’d never seen before, tacked to Grantaire’s bedroom wall amongst what must be over a hundred photographs. In the picture they are laughing, sat on the grass outside the university that Enjolras and Grantaire used to attend. Enjolras doesn’t remember the day. Doesn’t know who took the photo. Hasn’t an idea who was with them that day. He looks at the photo and all he can see is happiness. He Blu-Tacks it to his bedroom wall.

The second thing he took was a leather bracelet that had been sitting on Grantaire’s bedside table. Enjolras remembers Grantaire wearing it most days, and doesn’t know why Grantaire wasn’t wearing it the day he died. He fastened the bracelet around his own wrist.

The second time Enjolras goes back to the apartment is on Christmas Eve. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he gets there, and then he just stands, staring up at the tall building. The apartment belongs to someone else by now. Someone new lives there, falls asleep in a different bed, watches a different TV, and possibly has the rooms in a completely different layout. He turns on his heel and walks back home, as fast as he can.

Once there, he wonders how he’s going to survive a Christmas without Grantaire.

\---

Christmas is an awkward affair. Everyone tries too hard to be cheerful. Forced smiles and false laughter fill the day.

In the middle of the day, they all stop pretending, and together they walk to the graveyard.

Cosette clings to Marius’ and Courfeyrac’s hands, squeezing too tight. Combeferre walks with his arm around Éponine as she puts on a brave face. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta don’t let go of each other, even as tears stream down their faces. Bahorel and Feuilly clasp hands, grim faced and determined.

Enjolras walks alone.

Standing in front of the grave, no one seems to know what to say. They’ve all visited the grave, of course, in smaller groups, but they haven’t been there all together since the funeral, and the presence of Christmas seems to make it worse.

Enjolras clears his throat and mumbles a, “Happy Christmas, R,” and that’s all he can say, really.

Courfeyrac and Cosette place pressed flowers onto the ground in front of the gravestone, Jehan recites a poem, and Enjolras stands there in silence and tries to remember how to breathe.

“There are nights,” Jehan says, “when it really sinks in that you’re not right down the road.

“I can’t just call you up when I’m feeling alone, because you’re so far away.

“I wish you were here.”

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut, and he feels someone wrap their arm around him.

“There are days,” Jehan continues, “when I’m having so much fun. Then it hits me that you're not experiencing it all with me.

“And I'm left with an overwhelming sadness. It won't let me be.

“I wish you were here.”

Enjolras leans into Combeferre’s touch and tries not to cry. He can hear the soft sobs of someone; he thinks it might be Bossuet.

“Every time I'm happy,” Jehan says, and Enjolras wonders at how his voice is so steady, “I become sad within a moment, because I realise I could be happier.

“If only you were with me.

“I wish you were here.”

Enjolras is shaking. Combeferre gently helps him lower to the floor, and they sit in the snow together as Enjolras cries.

“The days drag on,” Jehan says, his voice quieter now, speaking only to Grantaire. “The nights seem endless. One day we'll be living a life together that is never ending, limitless.

“But right now,

“I wish you were here.”

Enjolras lets out a gasping sob and Combeferre holds him tighter. His whole body trembles, the weight of Grantaire’s death bearing down on him, an impossible heaviness for him to hold. The wet snow seeps through his trousers, chilling him to the bone, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.

Someone touches his hand, and their fingers thread together. It could be any of his friends. He keeps his eyes closed. Somebody else joins the little huddle on the ground, and then another, and another.

For a moment, in the cold snow beside Grantaire’s grave, Enjolras doesn’t feel so alone.

\---

The sun is shining through the window, heating the room, and still Enjolras feels cold. He doesn’t want to move ever again. He stays lying in bed for a long time.

Combeferre calls. “A number of us are going for a picnic,” he tells Enjolras. “Do you want to join us?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “No, I’ve got some things to be getting on with.”

A pause. “You really shouldn’t be alone today, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, softly.

“I’ll be okay,” Enjolras replies.

Combeferre sighs. “Okay, Enjolras. Call me if you need me.”

Enjolras hangs up without another word.

One year without Grantaire.

It’s a little remarkable how quickly the time has gone. Remarkable and scary.

Eventually, Enjolras finds the energy to drag himself out of bed. He heads for the shower, turning it on and standing under the too-hot water, eyes closed. Running his fingers through his sodden hair, he sighs.

When he gets out, the tiles beneath his feet are cold. He stares at his distorted reflection in the foggy mirror, and in the steam on the glass, a handprint appears.

Shock courses through him like a lightning bolt, and as he takes an impulsive step backwards, his foot slips on the damp tiles. He falls with a yell, landing on the ground with a crash – the fall taking less than a second – and his head crashes against the wall behind him with a loud crack.

He’d tried to grab something to hold on to when he started to fall, and now his arm is at an awkward angle, half in the sink, causing pain to spike through his upper arm. His hip hurts, too, from landing on the floor too heavily. The worst pain is in his head, and he dizzily lifts a hand to check it’s not bleeding.

Cold rushes through him, along with a sudden rush of feelings that are… not his own. The overwhelming jumble of _panic-alarm-worry-guilt-guilt-guilt_ surges through him and Enjolras flinches.

The foreign feelings disappear as fast as they arrived and now warmth seeps over him. “What the fuck?” he mumbles, pressing a hand to the back of his head. He’s relieved to find that he’s not bleeding, but when he gets to his feet the head-rush forces him back down.

He sits there for a long moment, trying to breathe steadily, and when he finally manages it, he forces himself to walk slowly back to his bedroom and pull on some sweats and the first t-shirt he can find.

He’s been hit on the head enough times to almost be certain that he’s fine, but not quite. He ends up calling Combeferre.

“Hey,” he says, when Combeferre picks up. “I know you’re out with everyone, but I just fell and hit my head and honestly I’m not sure if I’m okay or not.”

Flashes of hot and cold keep running through him, and he can’t get that sudden rush of worry and guilt out of his head.

“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” Combeferre promises. “Stay sat down and don’t go to sleep.”

Enjolras hangs up and sits there, staring at his phone, for a long while. His temperature has evened out, now, to a steady warm that somehow isn’t as hot as he thinks it should be.

Combeferre shows up almost half an hour later, and Enjolras still hasn’t moved. He’s not sure what happened in the bathroom, and he’s never felt this shaky before.

“Shit,” Combeferre says, dryly, coming into the room. “Did you get air con in here? It’s freezing.”

Enjolras blinks up at him. “It is?” he asks.

Combeferre comes across and lifts Enjolras’ chin with two fingers. He peers into Enjolras’ eyes. “Do you have any feelings of dizziness or nausea?”

“Nausea, no. Dizziness, a little,” Enjolras replies, obediently.

“What happened?” Combeferre asks.

“I-” Enjolras stops. He tries again, “I thought I saw something and it made me jump, and I slipped on the tiles in the bathroom and hit my head.”

Combeferre frowns. “What did you think you saw?” he asks, as he moves round to look at the back of Enjolras’ head, fingers probing gently.

“Ouch.” Enjolras winces as Combeferre touches the sore spot. “Um, it’s stupid. Just- It was just a handprint on the mirror in the condensation. It was probably mine.” It wasn’t. He’s sure of it. He doesn’t touch the mirrors, and it didn’t appear until after he’d gotten out of the shower.

Combeferre hums. “You don’t appear to have concussion,” he says, “but take it easy for the rest of the day, just in case.”

“I’m okay?” Enjolras asks.

“You’re okay,” Combeferre confirms. The room seems to get warmer and lighter and Enjolras experiences an odd whoosh of _relief-content-happy_. Combeferre hugs him them, and there’s a slight tinge of _regret_ that is not his own, but it’s mostly blocked out by the warmth of Combeferre’s arms. “Do you want to call the others and get them to come over and watch movies?”

Enjolras thinks about it, and decides that maybe not being on his own is a better idea than what he’d had originally. “Yeah,” he agrees.

“Okay,” Combeferre says and gives him a squeeze. He pulls away to get out his phone and Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“I really miss him, y’know?” Enjolras says. “He’s… He’s left such a… _gap_ in my life. And- and there’s so much _regret_ , Ferre. I should have told him.”

Combeferre looks at him with sadness. “I know what you think you should have done, Enjolras. I do wish that time had been on your side. I wish that you and Grantaire could have been happy together, but that’s not how it worked out. He died, and nothing’s going to change that.

“For what it’s worth, we all miss him. Sometimes I forget that he’s gone and it’s like… God, it’s one of the worst pains I have ever experienced when I remember. But there’s no point dwelling on what could have been; you’re only going to bring yourself more heartache.

“I’m so sorry, Enjolras,” Combeferre says. “I’m sorry that he died, I’m sorry that you lost him. I wish he was still here, but he’s not. The only thing we can do is to try and be happy and remember him.

“Do him the justice of living a fantastic life. He would have wanted that.”

Enjolras nods, weakly, and he can feel the tears stinging his eyes. He feels nothing but his own sadness and regret in that moment. He listens as Combeferre talks to Courfeyrac on the phone, and then allows Combeferre to half carry him to the front room, where they flop onto the sofa and wait for the others to arrive.

Their friends arrive with a clatter of good cheer and smiles, and it makes Enjolras smile too. Some press kisses to the top of Enjolras’ head, others give him a warm hug, and the rest grin at him.

Joly holds up a familiar-looking box. “I took this from Grantaire’s,” he says. “It’s his DVD collection.”

Enjolras smiles a little at that, remembering the time that he got ill and Grantaire showed up on his doorstop with that very box and a lot of chocolate, and he and Grantaire got into an argument about Grantaire’s taste in films.

“Can we watch The Goonies?” Enjolras asks, remembering how offended Grantaire had been that Enjolras had never seen such a ‘classic’ (“Francois Enjolras, did you have _no_ childhood?”), and had then proceeded to put the film on and force Enjolras to cuddle-watch it.

Joly gives him a knowing look. “Sure,” he says.

Bossuet brought along what was left of the picnic, and they get out the food, passing it around for everyone to snack on.

Watching this film with Grantaire had been one of the moments where Enjolras had really had to accept that he was in love with Grantaire. He’d been utterly miserable that day, as he always is when he’s ill, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been too busy to come round with their jobs. He hadn’t expected Grantaire to show up, and the butterflies in his stomach when Grantaire had cuddled up to him were hard to ignore.

He could have told him that day. He could have told him every day. He never told him.

His eyelids keep sliding closed as they watch the film, the ‘excitement’ of the day tiring him, and the unusual gentle warmth that surrounds him lulling him into unconsciousness.

Combeferre nudges him awake. “Sorry, just had to check you’re alright,” he says, as on the screen the Goonies stare in awe at all the treasure surrounding them.

Enjolras nods, tiredly. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

There’s very little food left and Enjolras leans down to grab a cupcake before they’re all gone. Apparently someone broke open some wine, because most of his friends have a glass in their hands.

Jehan lifts the bottle, offering him some, but he declines, shaking his head with a smile.

When the movie comes to an end, someone mutes it, but they leave the credits on the screen. They sit in silence, until Bahorel says, “A toast.” He holds up his glass of wine. “To Grantaire: for always being a bloody marvellous friend, and for having such shit taste in movies.”

The rest of the group lift their glasses too, small, sad smiles on their faces. “To Grantaire,” they echo, and then they drink.

Enjolras was a little slow, in his tired state, and he doesn’t have a drink, but he still mumbles a, “To Grantaire.”

“Fuck,” Feuilly says, after a long moment of thought. “It’s been a year and I still can’t believe it.”

A few people mumble their agreements, and Enjolras feels his chest tighten.

Aren’t these things supposed to get better with time? Then again, he supposes that a year isn’t that long compared to the twelve years that Enjolras knew him. Knew him for twelve years; loved him for four; never said a word. Knew, knows, loved, loves. What’s the difference anymore?

\---

Later that night, when everyone’s gone, Enjolras’ thoughts return to the handprint. It’s his most solid evidence and he goes back to his bathroom, turning on the light and locking the door behind him. He turns on all the taps to the hottest they will go and allows the room to fill with steam.

He stares at the mirror. He stares, and he stares, and he stares.

And no handprint appears.

Enjolras goes to bed feeling oddly disappointed.

\---

The next morning, when he wakes, his skin is sweaty and the sheets are sticking to him. He groans and makes a sound of disgust, pushing the duvet off him. Instantaneously he feels cold, the difference as stark as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

(He does know how that feels – of course he does; everyone in the ABC took part in the challenge to raise awareness for ALS. He remembers Grantaire laughing so hard that day, as Enjolras’ hair dried all poofy in the summer sun. He also remembers Grantaire’s face after Enjolras had had the water poured over him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.)

Enjolras groans again and debates pulling the covers back over himself, idly wondering if maybe he’s gotten ill somehow – maybe the whack on the head did it. Instead he opts to head for a shower to rid himself of the smell of sweat.

Once again, no handprint appears, and Enjolras doesn’t know whether that unsettles him or brings him peace.

As he walks through to the front room, he notices the curtain flutter, but when he goes to check, the window remains closed and locked.

He finds himself with his back pressed against his living room wall, staring out at the room, daring something to move. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Enjolras says aloud, like he’s trying to prove something, but suddenly he’s not so sure.

Internally, he knows that he’s overreacting. It was nothing but a curtain moving. And yet he can’t seem to shake the feeling that something’s not right.

He can barely breathe, and his hearts pounding so loudly in his chest he can hardly hear anything else.

From where he’s standing, he can see his laptop, still turned on from a few nights ago when he’d pretended that he could get any real work done. As he watches, the screen comes to life and Enjolras feels sick. This isn’t real. _This_ _isn’t real._

Cautiously, he steps forwards, walking towards the laptop, and as he approaches, he can see keys pressing down, and words appearing at the end of the word document he’d had open.

He’s close enough to see the words, and what he sees makes his heart stop.

**Hey there Apollo**

Enjolras all but runs to the graveyard.

He skids to a halt beside Grantaire’s grave and drops to his knees, letting out a gut-wrenching sob. “Grantaire,” he breathes, when he catches his breath. “Grantaire I think I’m losing it. I think you’re still here, and you _can’t_ be. I don’t know if it’s… wishful thinking, or, fuck, schizophrenia, but I swear you’re still here. I can feel you in my flat. It _is you_ , isn’t it?” He puts his head in his hands. “Oh, God.”

He tries to force himself to think rationally. Until now he hadn’t believed in ghosts. Combeferre does, he thinks. Now, all the evidence points towards the supernatural being very real, and that terrifies Enjolras. His hands are shaking and he clenches them into fists, sitting back and looking at Grantaire’s carved name.

There are tears running down his face, helpless to stop them, and he sniffs. “I’m so sorry, Grantaire.” Then, “Why’d you leave me, R? Why would you leave me?” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Have you come back for me? Did you stay for me?”

The cold slate yields no answers, and Enjolras’ whole body racks with sobs as he hunches over in front of the gravestone.

“Please come back,” he mumbles.

He hears a voice behind him ask, “Enjolras?” and Enjolras’ head jerks up. He turns to see Jehan standing a little way off. “Would you like some company?” he asks.

Enjolras hesitates, but then nods, and Jehan comes to sit beside him.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be here,” Jehan says, softly. “Do you come here a lot?”

Enjolras nods, tiredly. “More than I should.”

There’s a long silence before Jehan says, “You really loved him, huh?”

Enjolras sighs. “I really loved him.”

Jehan’s hand moves over and takes hold of Enjolras’, giving it a squeeze. Enjolras leans into his friend, and stares at Grantaire’s grave.

After a while he asks, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Jehan seems to think hard about the question for a while before he answers, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Enjolras makes a soft humming sound in acknowledgement. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I think Grantaire’s still here,” he admits.

Jehan nods, slightly. He gives Enjolras a squeeze. The sun is getting lower in the sky, red and orange spilled out over the horizon. “It’s okay to believe in the supernatural, Enjolras, and it’s okay to want to believe that a loved one is still around, but if you think this because you’re feeling desperate… I’m here for you, and we all miss him, Enjolras. Don’t suffer alone.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras says. “I really do think he’s still around. In my flat. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t really think it.”

Jehan sighs. “I know, E. I know.”

They sit there for hours after that, just breathing quietly next to each other, and when it gets cold, they huddle closer. Night arrives and they’re still sitting beside Grantaire’s grave. Jehan looks up and smiles. “The sky fills up with diamonds, and I wish he could see it,” he says. Then he looks at Enjolras, who’s determinedly staring at the ground instead. “Take me to him,” Jehan says.

So Enjolras does.

\---

“Have you done any tests?” Jehan asks, as they stand in Enjolras’ living room.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m too scared that it’s not actually him.”

Jehan simply nods. “Why do you think it’s him?”

“He called me Apollo,” Enjolras says. “Typed it onto my computer in a word document. There are other things, incidents that reminded me of him. Oh, and there’s the feelings too. Like, I get… projections of his feelings? I don’t know.”

Jehan nods again. “How do you feel about Ouija boards?” he asks, thoughtfully.

\---

“This feels ridiculous,” Enjolras mutters, almost an hour later, sitting down across from Jehan on the other side of the table. It’s the middle of the night.

Jehan grins. “Could work, though,” he points out. “I’ll do all the talking,” Jehan assures him, and Enjolras hesitantly reaches out and places two fingers from each hand on the planchette. Jehan smiles at him, reaching out to touch the planchette too, and then says, “Is there a spirit present?”

Both men keep their eyes fixed on the Ouija board, waiting for something to happen.

When the planchette starts to move, Enjolras tries to force himself not to gasp. He stiffens slightly, but lets his arms go loose, following the movement.

**YES**

Jehan smiles, clearly perfectly at ease. “Can you tell us your name?” he asks.

**NO**

“Why not?” Jehan questions.

**I  D-O-N-T  K-N-O-W  I-T**

“You don’t know your name?” Jehan frowns. “That’s okay. Maybe it will come back to you. Do you know who I am?”

**NO  YES  M-A-Y-B-E**

Enjolras and Jehan exchange a look. “You don’t know that either?” Jehan asks, curiously.

**NO**

“That’s okay, too,” Jehan says. “Do you know how long you have been dead?”

**NO**

“Do you know how you died?”

Enjolras tenses.

**NO**

“Is there anything you remember at all?” Jehan asks, almost desperately.

**I-T  H-U-R-T  A  L-O-T**

Wincing, Enjolras almost moves his hands away, but with a warning look from Jehan, he manages to keep his hands there. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” Jehan says, caringly, despite the fact that he’s all but glaring at Enjolras. “How do you feel now?”

**T-I-R-E-D**

A long pause, and then:

**T-H-I-S  I-S  T-I-R-I-N-G**

“I’m sorry. I only have one more question, if that’s okay?” There’s no response, and Enjolras assumes that means it’s okay. He shrugs at Jehan, who nods and says, “Is the name ‘Grantaire’ familiar to you?”

**YES**

Jehan and Enjolras’ eyes jump up to meet, wide, but then the planchette moves again.

**I-V-E  H-E-A-R-D  H-I-M  S-A-Y  I-T**

“They must mean me,” Enjolras says, tiredly.

The planchette then moves down to **GOODBYE**. Enjolras and Jehan remove their hands from the board.

They sit in silence, staring at each other, not knowing what to say. Eventually, Jehan starts packing the Ouija board away, and Enjolras gets to his feet, pacing away from the table.

He turns back, abruptly. “Do you think it’s him?”

Jehan finishes putting the board into the box before looking at him. “I think it’s likely, but we don’t have any proof.”

Enjolras nods. He sinks onto the sofa. “I just want it to be him so badly,” he says.

“I know,” Jehan replies, softly, coming over to sit by him. “So do I.” Then, “It might still be him. It really might be. He hangs around your flat all the time, and- and likes to mess with your things and- It might still be him, Enjolras. That _sounds_ like him.”

Enjolras nods, blankly. “What if it’s not, Jehan?” he asks, quietly. “What if it’s not _him_?”

Jehan regards this, and then says, “If that’s what happens, we’ll deal with it then.” He pauses. “There’s also the question of what do we do if it _is_ him?”

Enjolras looks at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

Jehan looks almost pitying. “Ghosts don’t stay benevolent forever,” he says, softly. “All the lore, everything we know about possible ghosts, leads us to believe that he… He could turn violent.”

Enjolras feels himself go pale. “You don’t- You can’t possible think he’d hurt me. Not on _purpose_.”

“It wouldn’t necessarily _be_ on purpose,” Jehan says, delicately. “He might… Lose control. Lose his sense of self. He might stop being _Grantaire_.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, “I suppose it’s like you said. We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

Jehan gives him an almost-smile.

After Jehan’s gone, Enjolras goes back to his laptop. Running his finger over the touchpad lights up the screen and there they are. The words glare out at him obnoxiously.

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras says, more to himself, not really thinking that the ghost is there.

But then the words appear: **Why not?**

Enjolras stares. “Because,” he says, slowly. “Because someone I used to… _know_ called me that.”

**Grantaire?**

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and he’s talked more about Grantaire in one day than he has in the last year put together. “I don’t want to talk about him. Not unless you can help me.”

**No talking about Grantaire then**

“No talking about Grantaire,” Enjolras agrees, and then he pulls the power chord out of the computer, shuts it down, closes the lid, and goes back to bed.

\---

Enjolras sits beside Grantaire’s grave with Cosette, in thoughtful silence. There’s not very much to say about his death any more – no one talks about him, these days. It’s odd. There’s almost an unspoken agreement that they shouldn’t say his name.

Enjolras hates it.

“Why doesn’t anyone talk about him?” he asks Cosette.

She shrugs, half-heartedly. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Everything hurts,” Enjolras replies. He looks around them, at the red and orange leaves that fall to the ground. “He loved autumn,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says. “All of the colour – such good inspiration.”

They fall back into silence and Enjolras stares at the black slate of his grave, name carved into it. It’s so permanent, being carved into the rock.

But the ghost in his apartment is still here.

Enjolras knows it is.

Temperatures change with what seem to be the ghost’s moods – which Enjolras still gets mental flashes of. On occasion, he has to leave his own house, because the ghost’s crippling sadness gets to him too much. It’s only when he’s walked eight blocks that he realises that sometimes it’s not the ghost’s sadness, but his own.

Things move and go missing, too. Books that Enjolras thought he left in his room are found on the dining table. His laptop is switched on before Enjolras gets to it. The curtains are already drawn when he reaches the living room.

It’s awful, and yet so comforting.

He still doesn’t know if it’s Grantaire. He’s starting to think it might not be.

They haven’t talked since that day with Jehan.

“You’ve never been angry with him,” Cosette says, softly, interrupting his thoughts. “Not since he died, that is. I’ve seen people go through loss of loved ones too many times, and every single one has gone through a phase where they were almost paralysed with anger at their loved one for leaving them. Not you, though. You’ve never been angry at him for leaving. You’ve just been… sad.”

Enjolras considers her words and shrugs. “What’s the point in being mad at him? I spent far too much time when he was alive being mad at him. What if-?” He breaks off and shuts his eyes to collect himself. “What if I hadn’t gotten so mad at him all the time? What if I’d been kinder? Calmer? Would he have loved me, then? Would we have had a chance?” He sighs. “It doesn’t matter. I wasted too much time being angry at a man that I loved. I don’t have it in me to be mad anymore, Cosette. I’m just too tired.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and then she takes his hand.

\---

Enjolras doesn’t particularly want to get out of bed the next day. With the sun shining in through the window, Enjolras curls up underneath his duvet and wills the day to be over as soon as it’s begun. He hates this.

Though he promised his friends that he’d call one of them if he felt this bad about a day, he can’t bring himself to. Grantaire’s dead. Enjolras can take a little loneliness and pain. At the end of the day, he’s still alive.

Grantaire isn’t.

It’s not until he feels a creeping coldness at his fingers that he jerks upright. He can practically see the ghost skitter backwards, as it knocks over an empty cup and sends the curtains fluttering.

Enjolras sinks back onto his bed. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he tells the ghost. “You just surprised me a little. You can come back if you want, just try and be a little warmer.”

He rolls onto his side, away from where he thinks the ghost might be. It’s not long before he feels warmth behind his back, in the bed. He gets a rush of _concern-apprehension-worry-fear_ and Enjolras sighs.

“I’m okay,” he mumbles to the ghost. The feelings don’t lesson – if anything they intensify. Enjolras just shuts his eyes and tries to go back to sleep. The warmth closes in around him, and Enjolras feels a small smile cross his face for a moment. The _worry_ and _concern_ don’t fade,but the _fear_ and _apprehension_ disappear completely. “I’m okay,” he says, again.

\---

When he wakes up again, the warmth is still there, though it could just be his body heat. This time, he makes it out of bed. He doesn’t feel like eating, but his stomach is growling, so he decides that he _should_ eat.

He doesn’t manage to will himself to do much, after that, and he ends up collapsing onto the sofa, a blanket wrapped around him. It doesn’t take much time for him to drift off to sleep again. He’s just so tired all the time.

\---

Something is tugging at his shirt sleeve, waking him up. Enjolras stirs, frowning, and then assumes it was the ghost. He yawns and stretches, glancing at the clock. It’s 4PM. He slept pretty much all day, and he’s still exhausted.

His laptop is open on the coffee table, a word document visible with the words **Do something productive** written on it. Enjolras laughs, softly, and reaches out for the laptop.

He doesn’t really have much to do, and ends up clicking through his files, finding his folder of photos from more than a year ago. He doesn’t have any photos from after Grantaire died. He stopped taking them. What he does have is pictures of Grantaire, alive, happy, and with his friends.

The mouse hovers over the first one for a second, before he clicks on it and it fills the screen.

He begins to go through the pictures with the arrow keys, dancing a fine line between smiling and breaking down. He doesn’t notice he’s started crying until the first tear drops off the end of his nose and lands on the trackpad. After that, it’s far too difficult to ignore the lump in his throat.

He stops on one of Grantaire and Jehan and Cosette, arms around each other, grinning at the camera. Grantaire’s eyes are shining and so full of life.

The mouse on the screen moves, suddenly, going to click on the icon for a document, and when it opens, the keys start being pressed – as if on their own – so that the words **Is that your Grantaire?** appear on the screen.

Enjolras tries to smile, but it cracks. “That’s my Grantaire,” he says. He should be alive. He should be here.

**He looks familiar**

Enjolras’ stomach twists. “You must have seen a photo of him in my house before. There’s one in my room.”

More words: **Tell me about him**

“I don’t want to talk about Grantaire,” Enjolras reminds the ghost. “Not if you can’t help me.”

**Maybe I can help in a different way talking might do you some good**

Enjolras thinks about it, and with Grantaire so fresh in his mind, he starts to talk. “He was beautiful,” he says. “So incredibly smart – it was impossible to keep up with him sometimes, even though he always said that _I_ was too smart for my own good. That was definitely him. If you got him started on mythology, or, God, the classics, he could talk you in circles. He was good with politics, too, but he’d never admit it. Honestly, the only thing he wasn’t any good at was maths.” Enjolras laughs. “God, he was so bad at maths. It- It was the one thing he couldn’t do. He kicked all of his addictions, and he could still laugh, even after everything that he went through, but he couldn’t do his three times tables. I loved him for that.

“And when he spoke – it was so full of life. He spoke exactly the same way he lived. It kind of meandered through topics; he just couldn’t stay on one, but he’d always work his way back to the point he was making. Wow, I haven’t thought about this in a long time. When he spoke, he had this way of making everyone that could hear him think that he was talking just to them. He could be talking to all of our friends, and I would still feel like he was talking to – was paying attention to – only me.

“Even when he was pissing me off – on purpose or not – I still loved him. It was so weird that I loved – love – him. I guess you really can’t choose who you fall in love with.”

Enjolras stops, and takes a deep breath.

“He kissed me once. I never told anyone. He was drunk – it was so long ago. Back in university. He came up to my dorm room and knocked on my door, and when I opened it, he stood up on his tiptoes, wrapped his fingers around the back of my neck, and he kissed me.

“It can’t have lasted more than a second. He started giggling as soon as he’d stopped kissing me. Then he said – and I’ll never forget this – he said: _‘He was acting like our kiss had broken him, and his reaction was breaking me.’_ Thinking back, maybe it was a quote, but at the time, he was looking up at me, and I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say to him, or what to do, and then he left. Without another word. I don’t know if he remembered it the next day. I never mentioned it to him.

“Maybe he was waiting for me to say something. Maybe he loved me back then. I know he didn’t when he died – he can’t have – but maybe once he did.”

**I’m sure he did**

**How could anyone not love you?**

Enjolras smiles softly, but the smile merges into a yawn and he closes the laptop. “I’m going to bed,” he says out loud to the ghost. It doesn’t feel awkward, like he thinks it should, talking to nothing visible. “Um, if you want you can come too. I don’t mind. Just. Stay warm.”

Getting to his feet, Enjolras stretches out his arms and then shuffles off to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth before clambering into the already warm bed. He smiles, between the sheets.

“Thank you,” he whispers. He gets a rush of _affection-gratitude-care_ and Enjolras drifts off to sleep, feeling genuinely loved.

\---

It takes less than a week for Enjolras to realise that he’s developing feelings for a ghost. It takes less than a minute after this realisation for Enjolras to go into a full-blown freak out about this.

He has a crush on a ghost.

There is a ghost residing in his apartment who keeps his bed warm, coaxes him into doing productive things, acts like the best damn therapist without ever saying a word, and opens his curtains and turns on his lights for him.

And Enjolras has a crush on him.

“Fuck,” he says, eloquently. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Immediately after this, he starts pulling on his shoes. “G, I’m going out.” _G_. He has a _nickname_ for the ghost. Fuck.

He slams the door behind him and somehow manages to get to Jehan’s house.

“You need to help me,” Enjolras says, marching into Jehan’s house without knocking. He then stops short, blinking in surprise at the sight of Bahorel, Feuilly, and Jehan curled up on Jehan’s sofa. “What?” he says. “Um.”

The three of them stare up at Enjolras for a long moment of shock, and then Jehan leaps into action. “This is _not_ what it looks like,” Jehan blurts out.

“Uh,” Enjolras says. “Okay?”

“I’m aromantic!” Jehan then yells, looking alarmed and desperate while the three other people in the room stare at him.

“You are?” Enjolras asks. “Okay then.”

Jehan flushes bright red then, and looks around helplessly, seeming to realise the extent of his overreaction. Bahorel gets to his feet, pulling Feuilly up too, and he gives Jehan a gentle one-armed hug. “Thank you,” he says. “We’ll get out of your way.”

Feuilly smiles at Enjolras, his expression gentle and knowing. His hand brushes Enjolras’ arm as he and Bahorel pass to get to the door, reassuring and kind.

Enjolras turns to look at Jehan as the door shuts behind them. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jehan says, his face still bright red. “It was a… Grantaire thing,” he then says.

“Oh,” Enjolras says.

“I assume that’s why you’re here, too?” Jehan prompts, sitting back on the sofa, his face returning to its usual shade.

“No,” Enjolras says. “At least… I don’t think so?”

Jehan asks, “What do you mean?”

Enjolras comes over to sit beside Jehan, and he sighs. “You know the ghost?”

“Mhhmm,” Jehan says.

“I think I… This is going to sound ridiculous,” he warns. “I think I’m developing _feelings_ for the ghost.”

Jehan looks at him, his manner calculating. “I take it you mean romantic feelings.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “And I guess you’re not the one to come to in regards to _that_ ,” he shoots a careful smile at Jehan, who blushes and smiles a little sheepishly, “you _are_ the only one to know about the ghost.”

Jehan takes a deep breath. “Enjolras,” he says, tone weighty, “while I greatly encourage you to move on from Grantaire, this is not healthy. I assume you’ve come to me because you realise this?”

“I know it’s not right – I know it’s a terrible idea. But I care for this ghost – or maybe I care for the person they once were? He’s nice to me, he’s kind, and I don’t know how to stop myself from feeling this way. I can’t imagine myself being able to get rid of him.” Enjolras sighs. “Jehan, I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you- Have you talked to the ghost about this?” Jehan asks, tentatively.

“No,” Enjolras says, instantly. “Do you think I should?”

“I don’t think it could hurt,” Jehan hedges.

“But is it a good idea? What if- What if the ghost returns my feelings? And the ghost knows how I feel about Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

Jehan says, “I’m concerned that you just think you feel this way because of your proximity to the ghost. He’s living in your house. That’s a degree of intimacy, regardless of romantic inclinations.”

“Right,” Enjolras agrees.

“We all have ghosts, Enjolras. We’re all haunted by the past – both good and bad – yours just happens to be a more literal ghost. Ghosts can be forgotten. Please, remember that. If you need to, the ghost can be left behind.”

\---

Enjolras gets a call from Musichetta at around 3PM on a Sunday afternoon. “There’s something I need to give to you, can you come round?” she asks him. He replies in the affirmative, briefly stopping to ask what it is. She pauses, and then says, “Something from Grantaire.” He hangs up and leaves his flat immediately.

His knuckles knock against the door to their house and he tries to keep his hands steady. Musichetta smiles at him when she opens the door and gives him a warm hug.

“What is it?” he asks as she leads him into the bedroom. In there, they find Joly and Bossuet sitting on the floor, surrounded by paper. Grantaire’s handwriting is clear on most of the pages, though some of them are typed. Musichetta picks up something off the bed and holds it out to him.

“We only found it today,” she tells him.

It’s a red folder, with Enjolras’ name on the front in Grantaire’s scrawl. Enjolras always found it amusing that in a group with three doctors, the artist’s handwriting was the worst. His hands shake as he grips the folder that feels full of papers.

“What is it?” he asks again.

“We don’t really know, but we do have an idea. I’d suggest looking through it yourself,” Musichetta tells him. She looks horrifically sad, and as Enjolras looks back down at the floor, he realises that they’re finally going through the things they took from Grantaire’s flat – as if it was too much to bear until now.

On the floor he can see sketches done by Grantaire, drawings of his friends, of butterflies, of a street that Enjolras doesn’t recognise. He can see long letters or diary entries, possibly, words covering pages in a writing that is hardly legible at times. He can see print-outs of various things, annotated and written on.

Worst of all are the things for the ABC. Leaflets designed by Grantaire, information looked up and scribbled down, and a few photographs from rallies and meetings.

Enjolras breathes out.

“Okay,” he says.

He elects to walk back to his flat, instead of taking the train, and the entire time he walks, he clutches the red folder in his hands. He doesn’t know what to expect on the inside. On the journey, he walks past a small little café called the Corinthe and, since he’s still lacking the courage to open the folder, goes inside.

It’s small and quiet inside, quaint, almost. It’s… charming.

Holding the folder against his chest, he orders a café au lait and pours two sachets of sugar and a small pot of extra milk into it before heading to sit down in a window seat. His eyes watch the steam from the coffee drift upwards in ever-changing swirls and he fingers the binding on the folder.

He lifts the mug to his lips and blows across the surface of the hot coffee, cooling it before he takes a cautious sip. The liquid scalds his tongue, and he quickly places the mug back in its saucer, to give it time to cool.

His attention turns fully to the folder. It’s almost old-fashioned, a bit of twine wrapped around a button to keep it shut. He carefully undoes the catch and slowly opens the folder, bracing himself. He pulls out the papers inside and begins to flick through them, trying desperately to stay in control of himself, to look at this with neutrality.

The majority of the papers are drawings of him. Enjolras talking in the Musain; Enjolras laughing with Bahorel and Joly; Enjolras smiling directly out of the page, like he was smiling at Grantaire; Enjolras fast asleep on the sofa, a blanket wound around him. It hits him like a train, but at the same time he knows that Grantaire drew everyone and everything.

What really gets to him are the sheets with words written on them.

The first one he comes across starts with the words, _Dear Enjolras._ Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, and then he starts to read:

_I thought this was a good idea, at the time, but now I’ve started to write, and it’s hard to explain myself, even here. You’ll never see this, because I’ll never show it to you. This will go in my folder along with all the other things I’m ashamed of._

Enjolras flinches, because that sounded- that sounded like-

 _I’m not ashamed of you, of course,_ Grantaire explains, and Enjolras breathes out sharply. _I’m ashamed of my cowardice when it comes to you. I’m ashamed of the way my hands automatically draw your face. I’m ashamed of the way your name springs so easily to my lips. I’m ashamed of the things I think about you. But I’m not ashamed of you._

_I’m not ashamed of the fact that I love you, because who would be?_

That’s where the letter ends, as if Grantaire couldn’t find the words to go on. Enjolras can’t help but wonder why, if he wasn’t ashamed, he never said anything, but then… Enjolras never said anything either.

There’s a sheet that has the header: _A list of things that make me happy_. It doesn’t seem at all related to Enjolras at first, and Enjolras wonders if it got into this folder by accident. A lot of it is very simple things, like _the sound of rain hitting the roof_ and _coffee_ and _white chocolate_. Then there are the things like _the sound of Musichetta’s laughter_ and _thinking about when Bahorel taught me to punch_ and _Jehan writing his poetry on my skin_.

Reaching the end of the list, Enjolras understands why it got put in the folder.

  *         _Enjolras’ laugh_
  *         _The sound of Enjolras’ voice (the powerful anger or the gentle whisper)_
  *         _The day Enjolras watched movies with me_
  *         _Enjolras’ eyes (and how they crinkle around the edges when he smiles)_
  *         _Enjolras_



Enjolras can’t breathe at all.

The most difficult to stomach, the one that sets his head spinning, is just a page with the words _I love you_ scrawled across it over and over and over and over again.

The thought that they both loved each other but neither one said anything tears through Enjolras like a jagged blade. A rusty knife, ripping through his skin.

Enjolras closes his eyes before he starts crying, and when he reopens them, he starts putting the papers away quickly, no longer able to stand looking through them. He takes a few large gulps of his coffee that’s now almost cold but leaves it for the most part, getting to his feet and exiting the café with a slight nod and a smile to the worker.

He walks slowly, not sure of what he’s going to do when he gets back to his flat.

Eventually he gets there, however, and he opens his door gradually. “G?” he calls. He walks into his living room, looking round for any sign of- well. Not life. But of G’s presence. “G?” he calls again.

A piece of paper falls off the coffee table, as if pushed by a breeze that isn’t real. Enjolras smiles. “Hi,” he says. The room suddenly turns ice cold, and Enjolras flinches. “What the fuck?” he asks, even as the feelings course through him. _Anger-panic-confusion-alarm-fear-fear-fear-anxiety-stress_. “ _G_ ,” Enjolras says, desperately. “What’s wrong?”

He moves towards the coffee table, where he assumes the ghost still is, and his arm goes out to put the folder that he’s still holding down and- Oh.

The folder.

It’s the only thing that’s different – but there’s no reason for the ghost to react to it. He can’t have any idea what’s in it unless- Unless.

It all clicks into place.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras cries out, and he _knows_ it’s him. “Calm down, it’s okay, it’s okay!”

The hairs along Enjolras’ arms and the back of his neck stand up as the room continues to drop in temperature. “Grantaire, _please_ ,” Enjolras begs, grabbing the throw off the sofa and pulling it around him.

Grantaire’s not responding; the only sign of his presence is the coldness in the room.

Enjolras sinks into the sofa and presses his hands to his forehead before yelling, “I didn’t know you loved me, too. I didn’t _know_ , Grantaire.” He lets out a sob. “I loved you, too.” Then he screams the words. “ _I loved you, too!_ ” He curls in on himself on the sofa, his whole body shaking violently with sobs. “I love you, too,” he whispers. He’s left mumbling the words over and over and over again, until all his tears are dried on his face. He hasn’t felt Grantaire’s presence since he said that he loved him, and Enjolras feels cold.

“Oh, God,” he says. “Why- Why didn’t I tell him when he was still _fucking alive?_ ”

Furious at himself for wasting any time that they might have had together, Enjolras buries his face into the cushion and pulls the throw tighter around him. He reaches into his pocket and texts Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

They’re over in record time.

They look down at him, curled up on the sofa, and burrow down with him into the sofa, wrapping their arms around him tightly.

“Did you know he loved me?” Enjolras asks, quietly.

Courfeyrac gives him a squeeze and whispers, “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Enjolras asks.

“When he was alive,” Courfeyrac says, slowly, “he made us promise not to tell, and you never- You never gave any indication you returned his feelings. After he died, we feared it would be too painful for you to know. You- You aren’t coping well with his death as it is, Enjolras. We thought this would make it worse.”

Enjolras nods, weakly.

“How did you find out?” Combeferre asks, gently.

With a trembling hand, Enjolras points at the red folder that’s still sitting on the coffee table. “Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta found this. It belonged to Grantaire.”

Combeferre looks at it, curiously. “May I?”

Enjolras nods, and curls back into the cushion. He watches as Combeferre reaches out and carefully picks the folder up off the table.

He buries his face in a pillow, not wanting to see the contents again, but he can hear the rustling of paper as Courfeyrac and Combeferre go through it.

“It’s weird,” Enjolras says, after they’ve all been silent for too long, lifting his head up from the pillow. “It’s like- We both felt exactly the same, felt and thought the exact same things, only he wrote it all down. I never did that. It just- It makes me wonder. What if I had been the one that had died? He’d have no way of knowing that I loved him. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t write any of it down. He wouldn’t know.”

Courfeyrac takes his hand. “Maybe you should write it down. It might make you feel better. Help you to move on.”

“I don’t want to move on,” Enjolras says, “and I wouldn’t even know how to start to write it all down.”

“You’d find the words,” Courfeyrac says. “Besides, nobody but you is going to read it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Love’s not.”

Combeferre holds out a list of songs, almost like a written mixtape. “Have you listened to these?”

“No. I only got this today.”

Combeferre sighs, setting the paper down on the table. “Enj,” he says, softly. “You need to let him go.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, and his eyes jump up to look around the room, wondering if Grantaire is listening right now.

“Because it’s not healthy to be in love with a ghost,” Courfeyrac says. Enjolras feels a momentary panic that they know about the ghost, before he realises that Courfeyrac only means Enjolras’ memories of Grantaire.

“Yeah, well a ghost is all I’ve got these days,” Enjolras says, his words too literal.

“You’ve still got us,” Courfeyrac says, voice small as he gives Enjolras’ hand a squeeze.

Enjolras looks at his best friends – his best friends who are still here, despite everything that has happened – and he smiles. “I know I do.”

\---

After they leave, Enjolras rifles through the sheets of paper that litter his coffee table, searching for the one Combeferre was holding. When he finds it, he looks at it properly, for the first time. It’s titled, simply, **everything I can never say to you**.

The list of songs covers the page, different pens and different levels of neatness all the way down.

Enjolras loads up google and types in the first one. He can’t bring himself to listen to the song yet, but he reads the lyrics, and somehow, it’s worse.

 _I've got my thoughts wrapped up in you. I've got my head all messed up with you_ is how the first song reads. _Tell me what I can do to be better for you._

Enjolras quickly closes the tab. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and then types in the next song.

 _Time and again I thought that the end was just around the bend_ the song says, and Enjolras can almost hear Grantaire’s voice reading the words aloud. _But you showed me there’s more, I got more in store._

Grantaire didn’t get ‘more’. He _died_ , and the words in the song are like a punch to the gut.

One more, Enjolras decides. He’ll look up one more, and then save the rest for another day. He can’t do all of this at once. It’ll ruin him.

 _In these coming years many things will change, but the way I feel will remain the same_ Enjolras reads. But the worst part of the song is the short chorus between the two short verses. _Lay us down, we're in love. Lay us down, we’re in love._

He can’t do this anymore. Enjolras slams the laptop shut and pushes the sheet of paper away from him. He hasn’t felt Grantaire’s presence since before Combeferre and Courfeyrac arrived.

With the ghost – _Grantaire_ – not around, it gives Enjolras time to really think about the fact that it’s _Grantaire_ living- residing in his house as a ghost. It just all makes sense. The ghost wasn’t lying to him at the start when he said he didn’t know who he was, Enjolras is sure of that, but maybe he has been lying that he hadn’t worked out who he was – is. Or maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he doesn’t _know_ he’s Grantaire – maybe it was just a gut reaction when he saw the folder. Fight or flight kicked in. Left over emotion from when from when he wouldn’t have known how Enjolras would react to seeing the folder.

Grantaire – the live Grantaire – must have been terrified that one day Enjolras would read the things he wrote about him.

He needs to talk to him.

Enjolras gets to his feet. “Grantaire?” he calls, hesitantly. “Uh- G? R? Wow, I don’t know what to call you now. Uh, are you there?” He looks around, disappointed at the lack of response. “We need to talk. I’ll get my laptop, and I’ll damn well sit there until you feel like talking, okay?”

So Enjolras does just that. He pulls out his laptop and sits at the dining table with it turned on in front of him, the screen on an empty word document.

It takes the ghost – _Grantaire_ – almost half an hour to show and Enjolras doesn’t move for the entire time.

**Hey Apollo**

Enjolras had never thought that two typed words could seem meek before, but they do.

“Hey, Grantaire,” Enjolras replies. “Have you known that you’re Grantaire?”

**Not till I saw that folder and you worked it out**

**I guess the left-over strong emotions really kick-started something in me**

“Okay,” Enjolras says. “So. You’re a ghost. And we both love – loved? – each other.”

 **Love** Grantaire types. **present tense**

“Right,” Enjolras says. “God, Jehan’s going to lose it.”

**It feels weird to actually admit that to you**

**I love you**

**It kind of sucks that I can’t say it though**

“This is enough,” Enjolras says, a small smile starting to play across his lips. He’s lying, though. It’s not enough. Grantaire’s still dead. “I miss you,” he says.

**I’m right here**

“It’s not the same, and you know it,” Enjolras says. “I can’t touch you – I can’t even _see_ you. I can’t hear you and I can’t- I can’t- I just want to hold you.” He sighs. “I don’t remember when I last saw you. I don’t remember if I said anything to you. I don’t remember if I hugged you, if I touched you in any way. I don’t remember the last time I saw you, Grantaire.”

**I’m sorry**

Enjolras sighs. “It’s not your fault, Grantaire. It’s not your fault.”

**Do you want me to tell you about the last time you saw me?**

Enjolras blinks. “You remember? Yes. _Yes_ , please.”

**It was a few days before I died. Everyone was at the Musain. We were all just hanging out and drinking. Well you were all drinking. Anyway, to answer your questions: no, we didn’t really talk. You looked at me a few times and grinned but you spent pretty much the whole night with Courfeyrac and Cosette. You did touch me though. You hugged me. Courfeyrac was trying to get you home because you’d drunk a little too much – and with how good you are at holding your liquor that’s really saying something – but you made him let you come say goodbye. So you came over and gave me a really big hug and said “Au revoir, Grantaire” in your fucking perfect accent and then you got all embarrassed for Reasons Unknown and insisted on hugging everyone. It was really cute.**

Enjolras reads each word as Grantaire types it, so he answers almost as soon as Grantaire finishes. “So the last time I saw you I was drunk off my mind.”

 **Yes.** Grantaire says. **But you said goodbye.**

Enjolras feels a lump in his throat as he says, “I did.” Then he says, “I said goodbye. I thought I didn’t get the chance to say that, but I guess I did.” He swallows. “Finding out that you were dead was one of the worst things that I’ve ever been through. I’m- I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. I just- I want you to know how much you mean to me. I nearly fainted when Joly and Bossuet told us all. I couldn’t stand up.”

He can feel Grantaire’s _sadness_ and Enjolras feels guilty for saying it. “I’m sorry.”

**I’m the one that died**

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

\---

Having Grantaire back is both a blessing and a curse. Enjolras had barely dared to dream of being able to talk to Grantaire again, but now he can, and it’s just not the same. He can read Grantaire’s words and know that it’s him saying those things, but he can’t _hear_ Grantaire, he can’t _see_ Grantaire, and he can’t _touch_ Grantaire. It’s like being offered a second chance but not being allowed to actually have it.

\---

“Can you do something for me?” Enjolras asks Combeferre. “Can you get all these songs and put them in a playlist for me?”

Combeferre takes the offered sheet of paper with gentle hands. “Of course,” he says, softly. He knows what it is. He’s the one that found it first.

When Combeferre knocks on his door the next day, he holds out a pen drive. Enjolras takes it, murmurs a soft thank you, and then closes the door.

He immediately inserts it into his laptop. On the drive there is one folder containing the songs, and one word document. Enjolras ignores the document and goes to the music, hitting Play All. Then he turns it up as loud as it will go and goes to sit on the sofa.

The songs play through, and Enjolras just listens. Sometimes, it’s hard to hear what the lyrics are, others are so clear that it feels like they tear through him. Grantaire loved him.

There are songs that Enjolras can’t ever picture Grantaire listening to, and there are songs that have Grantaire written into every line, every note, every beat. There are fast songs, slow songs, songs that make Enjolras feel like crying, and songs that he barely understands. Songs that he can feel in his veins and songs that shoot through his brain. It turns out that music was the best way Grantaire could ever express himself, even with his talent for his own spoken word.

_I’m gonna hang around long enough to be part of the furniture._

_This heart, it beats, beats for only you. My heart is yours._

_I think that possibly maybe I’m falling for you. Yes, there’s a chance I’ve fallen quite hard over you._

_There’s nowhere that I wouldn’t follow. There’s nothing that I won’t do for your kiss._

_My room is big enough for the both of us, so won't you come around? Help me fill it up. Cause I'm sitting here in all this space. Why don't you come and show your face?_

_I think I was blind before I met you._

Enjolras lets out a gasping breath that he didn’t realise he’d been holding for the past thirty seconds or so. The list of songs is endless, and he sits there for what feels like hours. When silence finally falls over the living room, he just continues to sit there, staring into space.

He’d expected Grantaire to make himself known at the sound of the songs, but he didn’t. He hasn’t.

He’s in love with a ghost. He’s in love with someone who died over a year ago.

“I can’t do this,” Enjolras says. The room is cold. He feels numb. “You either need to leave, or I’m going to.”

He’s not sure why he’s so certain that Grantaire can hear him, but he is. Even if he’s not making himself known, he’s sure he’s there.

“I love you, but you’re dead. Nothing’s going to change that. I can’t have you in my life.” Enjolras stares at his knees. “If you need help in going tell me right now and I’ll get Jehan. If you don’t stay silent and I’m going to go visit friends and when I get back you need to be gone. If you’re still here, I’ll move out.”

The curtains swish and then the laptop on the table shifts a little. Enjolras watches the keys go down from a distance, and then he gets up and goes to read what’s on the screen.

**Please don’t do this**

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Is there anything that needs to be done to allow you to move on?”

There’s a long pause. Like the whole world is holding its breath.

“Then leave,” Enjolras says. He keeps his voice level, and his face smooth, like the words aren’t like bullets in his chest. “When I get back tomorrow, you can’t be here.”

He shuts the laptop. He walks to the door.

He turns back. He reopens the laptop.

“I don’t care what you said, we never got to say goodbye. I love you, Grantaire. I love you so much, and it kills me every day that we could have had everything and instead we got nothing. I love you.”

**Enjolras I don’t want to leave**

“I know, I know you don’t. But please, for my sake, say goodbye, tell me that you love me one last time, and then go.” He can feel his lip trembling. His hands are shaking.

 **I love you** Grantaire says. **Goodbye, Enjolras. Take care of yourself.**

“Goodbye, Grantaire. I really did love you.”

**I’ll always love you**

This time, when Enjolras closes the laptop and walks to the door, he doesn’t look back.

\---

The city is quiet tonight. There are no alarms, no shouting, not even joyous drunken laughter. There’s just nothing.

Enjolras doesn’t cry, he just walks.

He walks all night, alone with the city, and he says his goodbyes to Grantaire. He makes peace with every memory, forgives both himself and Grantaire for every time they fought and for every time they didn’t say that they loved each other. He lets go the idea that they could have been together forever.

When the sun is coming up, he finds himself at Grantaire’s grave. Fresh light falls on the grass and the flowers that cover up the place where Grantaire’s body is buried. It’s a new day.

His apartment is empty when he gets back. His apartment is quiet, still, _different_. He knows without having to check that Grantaire is gone.

He walks through the empty rooms of his apartment. In his dining room, his laptop still sits on the table, where he had his last conversation with the ghost of Grantaire. The pen drive still sticks out of the slot. His living room is peaceful, and the papers from Grantaire still lay on the coffee table. In his bedroom, the picture of him and Grantaire, laughing, is still stuck to the wall.

Enjolras thumbs the leather bracelet that once belonged to Grantaire that encircles his wrist.

Enjolras doesn’t cry about it, not for a long time. He’s made his peace. He sometimes feels guilty that he never told anyone that Grantaire’s ghost was in his apartment. He never gave anyone else the chance to say goodbye – but he thinks that maybe they wouldn’t have wanted to. Lord knows it was hard enough to let Grantaire go the first time around.

One day he visits Jehan. They sit on Jehan’s sofa, drinking green tea, and they talk. Enjolras tells him that it was Grantaire. He tells him that he loved Grantaire with all of his heart, and some part of him always will. He tells him about how they got to say their goodbyes. He tells him that he’s come to terms with his loss.

Jehan takes his hand and tells him to never forget Grantaire. To always hold a piece of him in his heart. Love like that isn’t meant to be gotten rid of. Jehan tells him how proud he is of him. He tells him that a lesser man wouldn’t have been able to give up that second chance. Jehan tells him that he’s still loved, that Grantaire still loves him, wherever he is now, and he tells him that he did the right thing.

Enjolras thanks Jehan and squeezes his hand.

After visiting Jehan, Enjolras goes to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The sun is setting, and he finds them in their kitchen, cooking dinner and laughing as the radio plays in the background.

Enjolras knocks on the open kitchen door, smiling at the pair of them. Combeferre whirls around in surprise, while Courfeyrac just grins and beckons him in.

“Mind if I join you?” Enjolras asks, peering over Combeferre’s shoulder to see what they’re making.

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac says.

It feels good to actually enjoy himself. He laughs freely at their jokes. He joins in when they sing along to the songs on the radio. He sits on the sofa with his two best friends and delights in living.

Death is the end of some things, but not everything.

Grantaire’s not here anymore, but that doesn’t mean that Enjolras should give up on the other things that bring him joy.

Enjolras looks at his two best friends, and he says, “I’m letting him go,” as the tears spill over.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac hold him tightly and tell him how much they love him and how _proud_ they are of him.

Life is for living. It’s time for Enjolras to do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Just throwing it out there - "Heartbeat" by Scouting For Girls was totally on R's playlist, and it made Enjolras laugh through the tears.
> 
> I have a writing blog: theskyis-forever come say hi and leave a prompt :)  
> Also, if you enjoyed this: [buy me a coffee?](http://ko-fi.com/A831F9U)


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